


The Gazebo in the Garden

by JantoJones



Series: Stand-alone  (The 1st 100) [66]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Illya goes missing when he and Napoleon receive a mysterious request for a meeting.(ps. I've never been happy about the conclusion to this and, one day, I may get around to rewriting it.)





	

Staring out of the window of the hotel, Illya was reminded of his time in England. The grounds had the vague appearance of the formal gardens found at English stately houses; albeit on a much smaller scale.

"Kopeck for your thoughts, Tovarisch."

"I was just contemplating that gazebo," he told his partner, as he gestured towards the structure. "I'm hoping that G. Emory Partridge* isn't involved in this affair."

"I very much doubt that he's our informant."

U.N.C.L.E. had been contacted by a man who was claiming to have 'information of great interest' regarding THRUSH operations. He'd left a date, time and place, and had insisted that he would talk only to Solo and Kuryakin. Naturally, the agents assumed they were being drawn into a trap, so had arrived at the specified hotel a day early. Following a good look around the building, they'd found nothing to arouse their suspicions.

"I'm going to check out the garden," Illya informed his partner. "I don't like the look of that statue."

Napoleon crossed the room and regarded the object. He quite liked it. Whoever the sculptor had been, they were very adept with the female form; especially the more significant attributes.

"I'm sure it's just a statue," he replied, with a shrug. "But, I suppose we can't be too careful. I'll wait here, and start getting ready for dinner."

Solo stayed at the window for a while, watching the dark clouds gathering in the distance. It seemed that there would be a storm later on. The sight of his partner emerging into the garden caught his eye. It was fascinating to watch Illya work. The one thing the Russian specifically wanted to look at was the one thing he initially kept away from. He covered almost every inch of the garden, looking for traps and hidden entrances. He never stopped moving, checking every nook and cranny, his hand constantly hovering close to his gun.

Eventually, Kuryakin's attention returned to the statue. He glanced up at the window of their room, knowing instinctively that Napoleon was observing him. Reaching out a hand, Illya touched the face of sculpture. Solo had a clear view, but could not have explained what he witnessed. One minute, Illya was touching the sculpture, and the next he was lying, motionless, on the ground.

Napoleon was running before he knew it, and he reached the statue in less than a minute. Only, Illya was no longer there. Searching the grounds, and the building, he could find no trace of his partner. Pulling out his communicator, he activated it and attempt to establish contact. From across the garden, Solo heard the unmistakable beeping of Illya's device. He followed the sound and found the communicator lying in a flowerbed, front of the gazebo.

"ILLYA!" he called out. "This is not the time for a game of hide and seek."

Switching channels, Napoleon called Waverly and told him of Kuryakin's disappearance.

"I haven't the first idea what has happened Sir," he said, his voicing clearly indicating his concern. "I could use some help on this."

"Very well, Mr Solo," the Old Man agreed. "I shall send Mr Slate your way. In the meantime, I suggest you continue your search. We have to assume that this is linked to our supposed informant."

"Yes Sir, Solo out."

Tucking the communicator away, Napoleon glared at the gazebo. It was probably a coincidence, but it was as good a place to start as any.

…

It took Mark Slate an hour to get to the hotel, where he found Napoleon sitting in the garden.

"Alright Mate," he called out. "No luck then?"

Napoleon shook his head at the Brit and explained that he'd looked into every room in the hotel and searched the garden three times.

It's a complete mystery, Mark," he told the other agent. "Illya has just disappeared from the face of the Earth."

As his words, a loud rumble of thunder echoed across the sky. Both men automatically looked up.

"That was ominous," commented Mark, as the heavens opened.

They dashed into the gazebo, in a vain effort to stay dry. Although he'd been briefed by Waverly, Mark asked Napoleon to go into greater detail about what had happened.

"That's just it," Solo replied. "I don't know."

The CEA recounted every last detail, leaving Mask just as confused as he was. They decided to wait until the rain let up before attempting another search of the garden. The sat in silence and watched the spectacular light show which nature was providing. It was while they waited that Mark noticed the strange behaviour of the rain water on the ground. It seemed to be flowing directly under the steps of the gazebo.

"There's probably a small gap letting the water under." Napoleon pointed out.

"But surely, with the amount of rain coming down, the ground should be saturated and it would be pooling by now. That looks as though it's draining."

The falling rain was forgotten in an instant as the two man jumped down to inspect the steps. Looking closely, Napoleon spotted two, almost invisible, hinges.

"It must lift," he said to the other agent. "Give me a hand here."

Together, the two men raised the steps with relative ease. They revealed another set which led under the gazebo. Mark made his way down and found himself looking along a tunnel.

"I'm going to guess that this has something to do with Illya's disappearance."

….

Illya awoke to the blinding headache he always got when he was sleep darted. It was becoming too much of a habit for his liking. Opening his eyes, he was surprised, and confused, at his surroundings. He was lying on a soft, comfortable bed, in a bright and airy room. The wallpaper was of a pale blue flowery pattern; matching the curtains and bedclothes. At the far end of the room, standing either side of the door, was and antique dressing table and a large armoire. There was a shaggy blue carpet and a few tasteful watercolours. All in all, it was a quite pretty bedroom.

Two things spoiled the comfort of the room. The first were the thick iron bars on the outside of the window. The second was the heavy iron shackle fitted around Illya's right ankle. A five foot long chain attached the shackle to the iron bed frame. It had been welded closed around his ankle, meaning there were no locks to pick. Illya wasn't going very far, very soon.

Checking for his weapon and communicator, he was unsurprised to find them missing. His watch, belt and shoes were also gone, leaving him without any of his little useful gadgets. A flash of lightning drew Illya's attention to the window so, fighting off a wave of nausea, he got as close to the glass as he could. Stretching to his limit, he was still a few inches shy. Looking out beyond the bars, Kuryakin could see the heavy storm clouds and through the rain he could just about make out a beach. There were no clues as to where he could be. Hearing a key in the lock of the door, Illya turned to face his captor. Even though he'd half expected it, he was still surprised by the person he saw.

"Welcome, Mr Kuryakin. I do apologise for the manner of your arrival, but it was entirely necessary."

"Mrs Partridge?" Illya exclaimed. "You were our informant?"

Edith Partridge stepped into the room, flanked by two dangerous looking men with rifles.

"I got one of my lovely boys to do it for me," she told him. "But it had the desire effect."

Crossing the room, she offered the back of her hand for Illya to kiss. The Russian found it difficult to marry the woman's twin personas of gracious hostess and sadistic torturer. As he accepted the proffered hand, every method he knew to subdue her, fleetingly crossed his mind. They were dismissed just as quickly. He could very easily kill her without trying, but he was still tethered, and there were still two armed men in the room. His lips barely brushed her skin, but she smiled happily at his good etiquette.

"I was so glad it was you we caught," Mrs Partridge continued, with that deceptively simpering voice of hers. "You're so much more intriguing than Mr Solo. Of course, it doesn't really matter to my associates which of you I got."

"What do you want with me?"

Mrs Partridge sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her, inviting Illya to join her.

"My dear husband, Emory, is in the hands of THRUSH. As is my niece, Victoria," she explained. You and Mr Solo were quite unfair, not allowing him his little mineral enterprise. As always, it falls to me to get him out of trouble, so I offered one of you in exchange for them."

"Where is this place?" Illya asked her, hoping to get enough information to start formulating an escape plan.

"I shouldn't really tell you," Mrs Partridge cooed. "But I shouldn't think it will do any harm."

It turned out that they were in a cottage, situated about half a mile from the hotel. Sixty years previously, the buildings had been part of the same estate. The tunnel which connected them was once used by smugglers, the leader of who was the owner of the estate.

"I would very much like to give you the full history, but I must prepare for my guests. They should be here soon, so make yourself at home until then."

Panic wasn't something Illya allowed himself to feel, but he was coming fairly close. He couldn't see any way of getting out of the situation. He couldn't free himself and it was doubtful Napoleon knew where he'd gone. Still, looking on the bright side, he was still alive.

For now.

…

Illya was lying on the bed, seemingly examining the fingernails on his right hand, when THRUSH came for him. He'd attempted to break the chain holding him but, despite being stronger than he looked, he was far from superhuman. An eyebrow was raised in surprise as two THRUSH operatives, four guards, Mrs Partridge and her two men entered the room. All, bar Mrs Partridge who was carrying bolt-cutters, had some sort of gun pointed at him

"Are you expecting trouble?" he asked, innocently.

"We were expecting two of you," replied Simon Fulton, the taller of the two operatives. "But it would seem we will have to make do with just you. I'm sure I'll be able to extract plenty of information from you, for my employers."

"Better men than you have tried."

"On your feet," instructed the other operative, James Benfield.

Knowing that, for the moment, there was no point in resisting, Illya complied. He didn't resist as is hands were cuffed behind him, and his ankles were shackled with a twelve inch chain. Bang went his plan to make a run for it at the earliest opportunity. Mrs Partridge handed the bolt-cutters to one of her men, who cut the chain tethering the captive agent.

"Let's go," Fulton growled.

As they left, with Illya unable to do more than shuffle, Edith asked when she could expect the return of her husband and niece.

"Soon," Benfield lied.

He knew full well she would never see them again. For his failure to THRUSH, G. Emory Partridge had paid with his life. He had accepted his execution with the stiff upper lip he knew would be expected. His niece, Victoria, had been claimed by a high ranking member of Central and was working out her days as a domestic 'servant'.

"Well, goodbye Mr Kuryakin," Mrs Partridge said pleasantly, as she wished her visitors farewell. "I do hope we meet again, perhaps you could come to tea."

Illya gave her a look of pure incredulity. She knew she was sending him to his demise, and he knew for certain that she wasn't as dotty as she seemed.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" he asked her.

"Oh my, Mr Kuryakin, such a nasty and ill-mannered thing to say. Perhaps Emory was right about you foreign types."

"This is America," Illya told her forcefully. "You are foreign also."

Before anything else could be said, a rifle was pushed into Illya's back, urging him on. He was taken outside and bundled in the trunk of one of the two waiting vehicles.

…...

"Should I be worried that this tunnel is remarkably well lit?" asked Mark Slate, as he and Napoleon made their way along it.

"I think it's an old smuggler's tunnel," Solo replied. "But it's obviously still in use. I just wish I knew by whom."

The name 'Partridge' kept nagging at him, but he figured it was the presence of the gazebo in the hotel garden which had put that in his mind.

"What I do know is, "he continued. "When Illya and I checked over the maps and ground plans of the area, this tunnel wasn't shown. That would suggest that the person still using it, is the only one who knows it's here."

Reaching the end of the tunnel, the two agents were faced with a heavy wooden door. It presented very little challenge to Mark, who quickly and efficiently blew the locks. The two men drew their weapons and cautiously stepped through, finding themselves in, what looked like, a wood store. With a gesture for Mark to keep following, Napoleon stepped out, and was only half surprised by what he saw.

Across the yard, Edith Partridge was waving, with her handkerchief, as to two cars pulled away. Two armed men stood behind her.

"I knew I was right," he mumbled to himself.

Aiming the gun at Mrs Partridge, Napoleon strode across the yard, demanding to know where Illya was. Two rifles were aimed at him, but the old woman motioned for them to lower the weapons.

"Oh, Mr Solo!" she exclaimed happily. "It is so nice to see you, and who is this other nice young man?"

"This is Mark Slate," Napoleon informed her. "He would also like to know where Illya is."

"You've just missed him dear; he went off with those nice people from THRUSH. I shall have Emory returned to me now."

"Mark, find a vehicle! Quickly!"

The rifles were raised again, this time pointing at Slate. Napoleon swiftly took both men down with sleeper rounds.

"Oh, very well done, Mr Solo," Mrs Partridge complimented him, as she applauded. "You are so very good. If you're quick, you may be able to catch up with your pretty little friend."

Mark returned with an old, but still serviceable car. Napoleon jumped into it; glad to be away from the mad Partridge woman.

"Step on it Mark. Let's get my partner back."

…

Illya's abductors had no idea that U.N.C.L.E agents were on their tail, and therefore felt there was no danger in stopping for coffee. They were so confident in fact, that both operatives, and all four guards, went into the first diner they came across. Their cars were left entirely unguarded. Not that Illya was aware of that. All he knew was that they had stopped but, having little room to manoeuvre, he couldn't free himself. He managed only to wriggle into a position where he could kick out at whoever opened the trunk. He wasn't comfortable, and it would do him no good in the long run, but it was a matter of pride. It was shameful to him that he'd been taken so easily in the first place.

It was lucky for Napoleon Solo and Mark Slate that the Thrushies had decided to stop. The car they had 'borrowed' was struggling to reach the speed Mark was trying to wring out of the tortured engine. It was by pure luck that Napoleon noticed the cars parked, side by side, at a diner. Slate drove past the diner and stopped just around the corner. Keeping low, the agents crept back to the THRUSH vehicles and each opened a trunk. Napoleon found nothing, but Mark found himself with a face full of Russian knees. Owing to Illya's awkward position, there wasn't much power behind the blow; just enough to break Slate's nose. The Brit cried out as he fell back, clutching at his face.

"Illya, calm down," Napoleon hissed. "It's us."

"Oh! Who did I get?"

"You got be," Mark told him, his voice distorted by his broken nose.

He got to his feet just in time to see the THRUSH men returning to the cars. Forgetting his discomfort for a moment, he and Napoleon pulled Illya from the trunk and dragged him out of sight. Much to Kuryakin's annoyance, Solo lifted him over his shoulder in order to get to their car more quickly. Illya knew better than to complain and it meant he was in a position to warn his colleagues when the Thrushies came into view; guns at the ready. Napoleon unceremoniously dumped Illya behind their stolen car, and he and Mark opened fire on their pursuers.

Slate, fighting off dizziness and nausea, was having difficulty focusing. He tried to aim at one of the THRUSH operatives, but could see three of him. While he struggled, Napoleon took out two of the guards, before the others found cover.

"What's the plan?" Illya asked, as he contorted himself to get his hands in front of him.

Napoleon handed the Russian his gun.

"We'll all get in the car, keeping down, and while you and Mark keep them busy, I'll drive."

"You make that sound so easy, Napoleon," Illya replied. "I'm fettered and Mark, thanks to me, can barely see what he's doing. Sorry about that, by the way."

"He's got a boint, Naboleon,"Slate agreed, hissing from the pain of moving his face. "I don't want to hit an innocent."

"Okay, in that case, Mark get in the back and keep down, Illya shoot at the bad guys. Even with your hands cuffed you'll be deadly accurate. Besides, I only need you stop them from following."

It was quite awkward, and a few gunshots were exchanged, but eventually the three men got into the car. Driving while ducking down was near impossible, but Napoleon just about managed. Illya fired sparingly; just enough to prevent the Thrushies from poking their heads up. He asked Mark for his silencer and, as he quickly fitted it to the special, he requested for Napoleon to drive past the diner. Knowing his partner's intention, Solo slowed down to allow the Russian to shoot out the tyres on the THRUSH vehicles. He then floored the gas pedal and headed back to the safety of HQ.

…

A few hours later, Mark was recovering in medical. His nose had been reset, and the bruises around his eyes were developing nicely. Knocking on the frame of the door, Illya asked if he could come in.

"Of course, Guv," Slate replied, with a smile he immediately regretted.

"I just wanted to apologise. Had I known it was you. . ."

"Illya, stop," Mark said as he held up a hand. "You had no way of knowing it was me, so you don't need to apologise. This is the third time my nose has been broken, so it's actually weaker than it should be."

"Thank you," Illya conceded. "I'm sure you won't say no to a pint of beer when you're able."

"Does that offer extend to me?" asked Napoleon, as he entered the room.

"Of course, my friend. If it weren't for the two of you, who knows where I would be right now. I doubt it would be anywhere comfortable. What are we doing about the mad Partridge woman?"

"What do you want to do?"

Illya thought about it. She had kidnapped him in order to bargain for her husband and niece. The woman had to be a fool not to know she would never see them again.

"Forget her," he said eventually. "Let her continue hoping for the return of her family."

Napoleon was surprised. "That's remarkably kind of you."

"Not really," Illya stated. "Hope is cruel. It makes you think there's a chance, when there isn't. Allowing her to keep hoping is the worst thing I can do."

With that, he left the room, leaving Mark and Napoleon to shrug in wonder.


End file.
